You’ve probably been wondering where I’ve been. I wish I knew. From what I’ve gathered, I’m in Florida, but I can’t be sure. I apologize. There is blame to be placed and I offer up my shoulders for firm placing. Sometime during our armistice my procrastination evolved, became twofold, and I began to procrastinate procrastinating. That ends here. I will consolidate my procrastination into a manageable, singular entity. With your help, I intend to double the frequency of our epistolary assaults for the whole of this current week. I owe you that much.
In order to perform this nearly impossible feat, I am going to write you four letters today. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Carmen, you lazy, deluded nincompoop. You are far too lazy and deluded to even attempt such an undertaking.” I’m thinking that thinking is unjust. I have more than one glimmering achievement to show for my twenty-three years of earthly existence (exempli gratia: 2nd Place in the Toms River North 2006 Battle of the Bands, defeated Nick Manos in a bike race from my garage door to his garage door and back) They don’t read like much but those inconsequential victories feel like much, to me. What I’m saying is: don’t underestimate my inexhaustible desire to go out of my way to prove people wrong. People in this case being you.
Few things in life feel as right as being right. Righting things pales in comparison-it isn’t self-involved enough for true gratification-but righting things can feel pretty right as well. I’m going to right things.
O’s and X’s,
P.S. Peel your eyes because there may just be an update to the muzak page, fresh recommendations for premium living, and, if you’re lucky, a new picture of Paul Blart. I know you love Paul Blart.